


In Which a Child Is Misplaced At the Museum

by OlwenDylluan



Series: It Cannot Be Taken From You [9]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Fluff, Humor, Kid Fic, M/M, Other, Snakes, Victoria & Albert Museum, does it count as kid fic if the kids are snakes and so is one of the parents, medieval tapestries, no beta we post like desperate men, no matter how you try to keep your kids safe they find ways around it, parenting is hard, snek!babies, temporary child misplacement, twentieth century art, victorian afternoon tea cures everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-16 19:48:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21276725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OlwenDylluan/pseuds/OlwenDylluan
Summary: It's Angelica's turn for a special outing with her dads...This takes place afterIn Which In Language Strange She said--"I love Thee True"in my fics.





	In Which a Child Is Misplaced At the Museum

“I have an idea for today,” Aziraphale said at breakfast, piling an indecent amount of marmalade on a scone. Crowley lifted an eyebrow, staring into his black coffee.

“Do tell.”

“I thought a meander through the Victoria & Albert Museum could be an enjoyable afternoon.”

“If it pleases you, angel,” Crowley said. He leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, hot mug cradled between his hands.

“And, I thought…”

Crowley opened one eye when Aziraphale hesitated.

“Yeees?” he prompted.

“I thought we could take Angelica with us.”

Crowley’s lips twitched.

“Interesting suggestion. What brought this on?”

“She hasn’t had a chance to be out of the shop with one or the other of us. She’s overdue for an outing, don’t you think?”

Crowley raised an eyebrow again, and lifted his mug to hide his expression.

“I thought the V&A would be interesting for her,” Aziraphale went on. “Her perception suggests that she may be appreciative of a collection of artefacts.”

Crowley thought of their daughter, cunning and sweet and very sure of herself. He thought about the atmosphere of the museum. He stifled a grin.

“If you think a museum will be her thing, angel, then by all means. Let’s take her along and see what happens.”

When the plan for the day was put to the children, Rosa was disappointed that she was being excluded from what she felt was an outing tailor-made for her. Aziraphale petted her and promised a trip to the Bodleian to make up for it. Anthony was cranky because he felt that he was the one who ought to have a special trip with them before Angelica did, given that he was the eldest. Clem and Datura were indifferent. Angelica preened at being granted the special treat of the day.

When the time came, Aziraphale slipped her carefully into the breast pocket of his coat, and away they went.

“Where shall we begin?” Aziraphale said, rubbing his hands together as they walked into the building, their footsteps echoing in the large open space crowned by the dome. “The Casts Court? The Chinese collection?”

“Why not one of the galleries of colonial acquisition?” murmured Crowley.

“Let’s at least look at something happier before we have to have that sobering discussion,” Aziraphale said.

“‘M not wrong.”

“No, my dear, you are not.”

“And it wasn’t my side.”

Aziraphale sighed.

“All the same… may we have a lighter day today? It’s her first trip. Let’s just appreciate beauty this time, shall we?”

Crowley followed him into the Medieval gallery, meandering through the stone arches and facades, listening to Aziraphale give a running description and commentary under his breath to Angelica, who was barely peeping out of his pocket. She was mostly hidden by his pocket square, and was spending more time watching the people around her than looking at whatever Aziraphale was rhapsodically lecturing about.

They wandered through other galleries and eventually reached the tapestry room. It was quiet and only had one or two people in it, at the other end.

“Angelica,” Aziraphale murmured, “do peep out properly. It’s dim enough in here that no one will see you.”

The tiny snake’s head emerged, pushing aside the pocket square and peering about.

_It **is** darker!_

“It has to be. The tapestries are delicate, and light damages them.”

_Can I get out to see them better?_

Aziraphale exchanged a look with Crowley, who shrugged and nodded. The people at the other end decided to move on to another gallery.

“Won’t be anyone in for the next few minutes. Go on, spawn.”

Aziraphale careful lifted the little snake out and placed her on a bench. She raised her upper body and looked around eagerly. She started a liquid burble about colours and shapes, which Crowley didn’t listen to other than to note that she was talking. He kept his awareness on the corridors outside the gallery.

After a few minutes, he murmured, “Someone’s coming.”

Aziraphale nodded and scooped up Angelica, slipping her hurriedly into a side pocket as a security guard entered on a relaxed but responsible walk through the gallery. Crowley grinned at him as Aziraphale fussed, brushing down his coat. He took the angel’s arm and escorted him out of the room into the next area.

“Wily serpent,” Aziraphale murmured, tucking his hand through the crook of Crowley’s arm properly.

“Want to go look at your Raphaels?”

“That would be lovely, my dear. Let’s do that.”

They meandered though a few other halls on the way down to the main level again, Aziraphale murmuring random facts to the snakelet in his pocket about things as they passed silver and mosaics, then passed through the Britain gallery on the first floor. When they arrived at the Raphael collection on the main level, Aziraphale said,

“Angelica, my dear, would you prefer to stay in my lower pocket, or would you like to return to my breast pocket? I believe you’ll have a much better view of the works from a higher vantage.”

There was no answer.

“Angelica, my darling,” Aziraphale said. Crowley paused and fixed the angel with a Look.

Aziraphale gently patted the pocket, then furrowed his brow. “Angelica?” He slipped his hand all the way inside. “Oh dear.” He patted the other pocket, increasingly flustered.

“Aziraphale,” said Crowley.

“Oh. Oh my.” Aziraphale thrust his other hand into the second pocket, then patted his chest pocket, looking frantic.

“_Aziraphale_,” Crowley repeated. “Did you lose our daughter at the V&A?”

“She was right here,” Aziraphale said, panicked. “Right here!”

Crowley stepped back and watched the angel search through every pocket again, then in his trouser pockets, just in case. There was a laugh bubbling up inside him, and he didn’t want it to escape where Aziraphale could hear it. He pressed his lips together in an effort to stall the grin that was trying desperately to escape.

“Let’s split up,” he said. “You take the gallery we passed through on the first floor, I’ll do the floor above that. She must have slipped out between the tapestry gallery and here, yeah?”

“Yes, yes,” Aziraphale said, distracted and flustered as he turned around in a circle. “Yes, of course. Oh, I do hope she’s all right—how did I not notice her falling out—“

_Because she didn’t_, Crowley thought, letting the smirk free as he strode to the staircase, his fingers loosely hooked into his pockets. Aziraphale thought the best of everyone; it was both his most charming and frustrating characteristic. Angelica was indeed a perfect blend of both of them, which meant that she had a good dose of Crowley’s chaotic nature and tendency to create confusion with the smallest action.

(She also had the staunch loyalty and protective streak that formed Aziraphale’s core, and the warrior’s heart that the angel thought he didn’t have. Crowley loved it in Aziraphale, and he loved it in their daughter, too.)

He loped easily up the stairs to the second floor and strode through the galleries they had passed through, ignoring the visitors who gave him startled looks. He headed for the twentieth century gallery that they had barely glanced at as they went by. Aziraphale didn’t have much time for modern art, much like he didn’t really pay attention to modern music. It would take him another couple of centuries to catch up to twentieth and twenty-first century creative expression. _Except he’ll listen to Elgar_, he thought, rolling his eyes.

He slowed down in the twentieth century gallery, tucking his hands into his back pockets and looking around carefully. He found what he was looking for by a bench near a vibrant tapestry.

“_Pink Horse and Fried Egg_,” he murmured, sitting down and extending his legs in front of him, crossing them loosely at the ankle. He placed his hands flat on the seat behind him. “Marta Rogoyska, finished 1980. Handwoven. Nice contrast in colours, yeah?”

_It’s so bright, Father._

“That it is. Can’t argue with you there.”

_It’s art?_

“It’s in the museum. Someone made it. Used their fingers to pull the image from their mind and reproduce it in this world, in of wool and cotton.”

He could almost feel her thinking from her hiding spot under the bench, in the shadow of one of the legs.

“You can see it better than the tapestries in the big room, can’t you.”

_Yes. Why?_

“Well, it’s bright in here; that helps. Your eyes aren’t trying to pull in light as well as see colour. And the colours in this one are very stark contrasts. Your eyes aren’t like Azirafather’s. You see colours a bit differently.”

_Why?_

“Everyone’s different. Not better or worse; just different.” He bent down and put the back of a hand flat on the floor. “C’mon, spawn.”

He felt her slither onto his palm.

“What do you like about it?” he asked as he sat up, letting her slip into his jacket sleeve, turn around, and peep out, wrapping her tail around his wrist for safety.

_I like the lines. They’re curvy. Like me._

“Yeah?”

_And I see you and Azirafather._

“What? How?”

_The red and black loops on the bottom are you, and all of us. Azirafather is standing above us in the middle, looking to the side, and his wings are behind him. He’s in the shade. He’s watching over us._

Crowley could see what Angelica was describing. He felt a pang as he saw the cross just left of the centre of the tapestry, with the black and white curves of the wing shapes left of that. Some day they’d have to explain religion to the children, and the roles they both played in the grand scheme of things. Not for a while, though.

Our side, he thought.

_And I see you cuddling me._

“Oh?” he said.

_On the bottom side, see?_

Crowley focused on the helix-like darker shapes at the lower right. He grinned.

“Yeah, I see it, spawn. That looks like a right good cuddle. Full body. Very firm.”

_So much love!_ she chirped.

“So much love,” he agreed. “Speaking of, Azirafather’s rushing all over the museum, wringing his hands and panicking that he’s lost you.”

_I didn’t mean to make him worry. _Angelica sounded correctly contrite.

“Uh-huh.” Crowley unfolded himself into a standing position. “You just slipped out when you could to explore twentieth-century art because the whim took you, without so much as a, ‘Hey, angel dad, I’m just going to spend a bit of time on my own, meet you later.’ Or even a, ‘Father, can I take a moment here?’”

_It’s exciting._

“I will assume that you meant your foray into art appreciation and the vivid presentation of much of the century’s artistic offerings, not the escaping from Azirafather part.”

_Of course, Father._

“You’d better apologize long and hard, spawn, or he’ll never take you out again,” he said, striding out of the room. Movement at the very end of the gallery to his left caught his eyes, and he could see Aziraphale fussing at the far end past the mosaics, his face pale as he paced, his eyes on the floor. “Or he will, but he’ll hold you in a death grip the entire time. Oi, Aziraphale,” he called down the room, and the angel looked up. Crowley lifted his arm in a wave, and his sleeve fell back to reveal the dark snakelet wrapped around his wrist. A glow of relief shone from the angel’s face, and he bustled toward them. “Now, be good,” he murmured, holding his hand out to let Angelica coil on his palm. As Aziraphale met them, she slithered directly over to his outstretched hands, already apologizing for her unthinking behaviour.

Aziraphale fussed over her, petting her and checking to make sure she was all right. Crowley took his arm again as he fluttered, gently escorting them out of the gallery toward the stairs. He knew how to make things better. Victorian afternoon tea was being served in the Morris Room, and with a crook of his finger he made sure there was a reservation in his name on the list, the one that came with a glass of champagne per person. Aziraphale could ground himself by telling Angelica about the antique servingware and crockery, and the wallpapers.

All’s well that ends well, he thought. But Angelica would be one to watch.

**Author's Note:**

> And there, Angelica has her solo outing. And of COURSE she flits off without asking permission, because she is indeed a blend of Crowley and Aziraphale. Best to beg forgiveness or spin a good story instead, rather than run the risk of being told no.
> 
> If you're keeping score, Anthony will be the last snek!baby who will have a solo fic written about him.
> 
> For those who like visual reference:
> 
> _Pink Horse and Fried Egg_ can be seen [here.](http://collections.vam.ac.uk/item/O128718/pink-horse-and-fried-egg-tapestry-rogoyska-marta/) Angelica sees a slightly desaturated, duller version with her snake's eyes, so it isn't quite so visually strident.
> 
> The V&A Victorian High Tea menu can be perused [here.](https://vanda-production-assets.s3.amazonaws.com/2018/09/10/09/43/05/8ccd117c-6705-4757-878a-95e3007b6c0f/Victorian%20Afternoon%20Tea%20menu.pdf) Photos of the Morris Room can be seen at the bottom of [the V&A Cafe page.](https://www.vam.ac.uk/info/va-cafe/)
> 
> Have fun wandering through the V&A collections online at the [Victoria & Albert Museum website.](https://www.vam.ac.uk/) (I had to go through this for a few hours today, because the last time I was at the V&A was decades ago, and THINGS ARE NOT THE WAY I REMEMBER THEM.)


End file.
